


Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban but Wolfstar raises Harry

by Scarletwolf



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, Honestly for my own need, M/M, Wolfstar raises Harry fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:33:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28423242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarletwolf/pseuds/Scarletwolf
Summary: Literally a retelling of PoA where Sirius and Remus raise Harry.
Relationships: Remus Lupin & Harry Potter, Sirius Black & Harry Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 3
Kudos: 80





	Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban but Wolfstar raises Harry

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter especially, is very close to the original book. It'll divulge from here, promise! 
> 
> This was honestly made just because I'm a sucker for wolfstar fics.

Harry Potter was a highly unusual boy in many ways. For one thing, He had two dads- or rather, two father figures that were his guardians. For another, He’d lied to his guardians about doing his homework and was now forced to do it in secret, in the dead of night. And, he also happened to be a wizard.

It was nearly midnight, and he was lying on his stomach in bed, the blankets drawn right over his head like a tent, his wand in one hand and a large leather bound book ( _A History of Magic_ by Bathilda Bagshot) propped open against the pillow. Harry moved the tip of his eagle-feather quill down the page, frowning as he looked for something that would help him write his essay, ‘Witch Burning in the Fourteenth Century Was Completely Pointless—discuss’. It was hopelessly boring and Harry now regretted lying to his guardians about completing his homework. If he’d actually done it when he had said, Remus could have helped him.

The quill paused at the top of a likely looking paragraph. Harry pushed his round glasses up the bridge of his nose, moved his wand light closer to the book, and read:

_Non-magic people (more commonly known as Muggles) were particularly afraid of magic in medieval times, but not very good at recognizing it. On the rare occasion that they did catch a real witch or wizard, burning had no effect whatsoever. The witch or wizard would perform a basic Flame-Freezing Charm and then pretend to shriek with pain while enjoying a gentle, tickling sensation. Indeed, Wendelin the Weird enjoyed being burned so much that she allowed herself to be caught no less than forty-seven times in various disguises._

Harry put his quill between his teeth and reached underneath his pillow for his inkbottle and a roll of parchment. Slowly and very carefully he unscrewed the ink bottle, dipped his quill into it and began to write, pausing every now and then to listen for any sounds in the house. Remus and Sirius had been arguing in hush tones for the past week about Remus’ new position as Defense Against the Dark arts professor at Harry’s school, Hogwarts. From what Harry could gather, he’d taken the job without consulting Sirius and Harry’s godfather had always had a petulant streak. Personally, Harry had no idea why they were arguing; he was thrilled to have Remus at Hogwarts with him. Thus, Harry tried not to make any noise in hopes that his guardians would get a good night’s rest for the first time in two weeks.

Sirius Black and Remus Lupin were Harry’s parents’ best friends, before they died. When Harry was just a year old, his parents were killed by the Dark Lord, Voldemort. It happened on Halloween night; they were betrayed by an old friend of theirs. Only Harry survived, though no one is exactly sure why. Sirius and Remus had taken him in and raised him as their own and Harry was eternally grateful for them. They had never let him call them dad- Sirius once snapped that he wouldn’t take that away from James, before gathering a sobbing five-year old Harry up in his arms and cooing soft apologies to him for making him cry.

Thus, Harry grew up with a fairly happy childhood. In his first year at Hogwarts, Harry had encountered Voldemort once more, though he was unable to touch Harry. Voldemort appeared again in his second year, this time in the form of a journal with a basilisk at his side. Harry had defeated him both times, though it did fill his parents up with worry. That was probably why this year, Remus had readily accepted the DADA job. To protect Harry from any misadventures this year. Harry didn’t mind.

Harry let out a low groan and dropped his head onto his partially finished essay. He still had so much to do. One of the essays he had left, a particularly nasty one about shrinking potions, was for Harry’s least favorite teacher, Professor Snape, who would be delighted to have an excuse to give Harry detention for a month. Sirius too, hated the greasy potions professor with a passion. _‘If he does anything horrid to you, Harry, you just let me know! I’ll curse Snivellus!’_ It was a tempting offer, but Harry had refrained from accepting.

Harry paused again to listen when he heard a noise, but it was only the dull beep of the telephone’s voicemail box. Harry snorted as a memory from a few days ago had resurfaced in his mind.

Ron Weasley, who was one of Harry’s best friends at Hogwarts, came from a whole family of wizards. This meant that he had little to no knowledge on the inner workings of muggle technology, unlike Harry who’d grown up with Remus who in turn had grown up around muggles. The Black-Lupin-Potter family therefor had a working muggle telephone in their home, so Remus could call his muggle friends. It was also used for when Remus, who as a werewolf and therefore had a hard time finding a job in the wizarding world, got a temporary muggle job. Nevertheless, Ron had decided it was time to get in touch with muggle technology and had called.

Harry, who happened to be in the room when Sirius picked up the phone, jumped a foot in the air as he heard Ron’s voice come through the phone.

“HELLO? HELLO? CAN YOU HEAR ME? I—WANT—TO—TALK – TO—HARRY – POTTER!”

Ron was yelling so loudly that Sirius had dropped the receiver, fumbling to catch it before it could hit the floor and possibly break. He managed to grab it and hold it at arms length from him.

“WHO IS THIS?” He yelled back in the direction of the mouthpiece. “WHO ARE YOU?”

“RON--- WEASLEY!” Ron bellowed back, as though he and Sirius were speaking from opposite ends of a football field. “I’M — A — FRIEND — OF — HARRY’S — FROM — SCHOOL —”

Of course, Sirius already knew who Ron was. Harry sniggered into the crook of his arm as Sirius, who had lit up in recognition, yelled back “HELLO, RON! IT’S SIRIUS! HOW IS YOUR FAMILY?”

“HELLO—MR—BLACK—THEY—ARE—GOOD—IS—HARRY--- THERE?”

“What is all this yelling?”

Harry turned to the doorway of the kitchen where Remus stood. He looked utterly bemused at the shouting match- conversation and Harry’s shoulders had shook in laughter. He had then taken the phone from his godfather and- still laughing- managed to convince Ron that he didn’t need to shout to talk through the phone. After that, he probably got told off by Hermione as he didn’t try to call again and had once again resumed simply writing Harry, or flooing him. Hermione Granger was Harry’s other best friend who actually had muggle parents, unlike Ron, and could use a phone perfectly well.

Harry finished writing about Wendelin the Weird and paused to listen again. The silence in the dark house was only broken by the occasional car driving by their London home. It must be very late, Harry thought. His eyes were itching with tiredness. Perhaps he’d finish this essay tomorrow night…

He replaced the top of the ink bottle; pulled his trunk from under his bed; and put his wand, _A History of Magic_ , his essay, quill, and ink inside it; shoved the trunk back under his bed, and got up. He stretched and checked the time on the luminous alarm clock on his bedside table.

It was one O’clock in the morning and Harry gave a little jolt. He had been thirteen years old, without realizing it, for a whole hour.

In a few hours, Remus and Sirius would come wake him up, singing Happy Birthday to him at the top of their lungs like every other year. They’d float him shrieking and laughing down to the kitchen where they’d promptly sit him down at their aging dining room table. Remus would try to cook breakfast for him despite the fact that his cooking skills have always been a long-lost cause (Harry had a knack for cooking and had taken charge of their meals since he was old enough to reach above the counter), and Sirius would pile presents after presents on the table until Harry worried it would break under the weight of it all. Harry would stuff the breakfast into his mouth as he opened his presents. Remus would brew up some coffee for him and Sirius and then (Harry’s favorite part about his birthday), they would tell him stories about their time at Hogwarts with Harry’s mom and dad.

Harry walked across the dark room, past Hedwig’s large, empty cage, to the open window. He leaned on the sill, the cool night air pleasant on his face after a long time under the blankets. Hedwig had been absent for two nights now. Harry wasn’t worried about her: she’d been gone this long before. But he hoped she’d be back soon – He’d hate to celebrate his birthday without her.

Harry, though still rather small and skinny for his age, had grown a few inches over the last year. His jet-black hair, however, was just as it always had been — stubbornly untidy, whatever he did to it. The eyes behind his glasses were bright green, and on his forehead, clearly visible through his hair, was a thin scar, shaped like a bolt of lightning.

Of all the unusual things about Harry, this scar was the most extraordinary of all. It was a reminder of that horrible night on Halloween twelve years ago; the night when Harry became an orphan. It showed where Harry had escaped from the same attack with nothing more than a scar on his forehead, where Voldemort’s curse, instead of killing him, had rebounded upon its originator. Barely alive, Voldemort had fled…

That is, until he had returned on Harry’s first and second year. Harry had to admit he was lucky even to have reached his thirteenth birthday.

He scanned the starry sky for a sign of Hedwig, perhaps soaring back to him with a dead mouse dangling from her beak, expecting praise. Gazing absently over the rooftops, it was a few seconds before Harry realized what he was seeing.

Silhouetted against the golden moon, and growing larger every moment, was a large, strangely lopsided creature, and it was flapping in Harry’s direction. He stood quite still, watching it sink lower and lower. For a split second he hesitated, his hand on the window latch, wondering whether to slam it shut. But then the bizarre creature soared over one of the street lamps, and Harry, realizing what it was, leapt aside.

Through the window soared three owls, two of them holding up the third, which appeared to be unconscious. They landed with a soft flump on Harry’s bed, and the middle owl, which was large and gray, keeled right over and lay motionless. There was a large package tied to its legs. Harry recognized the unconscious owl at once — his name was Errol, and he belonged to the Weasley family. Harry dashed to the bed, untied the cords around Errol’s legs, took off the parcel, and then carried Errol to Hedwig’s cage. Errol opened one bleary eye, gave a feeble hoot of thanks, and began to gulp some water.

Harry turned back to the remaining owls. One of them, the large snowy female, was his own Hedwig. She, too, was carrying a parcel and looked extremely pleased with herself. She gave Harry an affectionate nip with her beak as he removed her burden, then flew across the room to join Errol.

Harry didn’t recognize the third owl, a handsome tawny one, but he knew at once where it had come from, because in addition to a third package, it was carrying a letter bearing the Hogwarts crest. When Harry relieved this owl of its burden, it ruffled its feathers importantly, stretched its wings, and took off through the window into the night.

Harry sat down on his bed and grabbed Errol’s package, ripped off the brown paper, and discovered a present wrapped in gold and his birthday card. Very eagerly, he opened the envelope. Two pieces of paper fell out — a letter and a newspaper clipping.

The clipping had clearly come out of the wizarding newspaper, the Daily Prophet, because the people in the black-and-white picture were moving. Harry picked up the clipping, smoothed it out, and read:

_MINISTRY OF MAGIC EMPLOYEE SCOOPS GRAND PRIZE_

_Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office at the Ministry of Magic, has won the annual Daily Prophet Grand Prize Galleon Draw._

  
_A delighted Mr. Weasley told the Daily Prophet, “We will be spending the gold on a summer holiday in Egypt, where our eldest son, Bill, works as a curse breaker for Gringotts Wizarding Bank.”_

_The Weasley family will be spending a month in Egypt, returning for the start of the new school year at Hogwarts, which five of the Weasley children currently attend._

Harry scanned the moving photograph, and a grin spread across his face as he saw all nine of the Weasleys waving furiously at him, standing in front of a large pyramid. Plump little Mrs. Weasley; tall, balding Mr. Weasley; six sons; and one daughter, all (though the black-and-white picture didn’t show it) with flaming-red hair. Right in the middle of the picture was Ron, tall and gangling, with his pet rat, Scabbers, on his shoulder and his arm around his little sister, Ginny.

Harry couldn’t think of anyone who deserved to win a large pile of gold more than the Weasleys, who were very nice and extremely poor. He picked up Ron’s letter and unfolded it.

_Dear Harry,_

_Happy Birthday!_

_The telephone call was fun, wasn’t it? Dad reckons I shouldn’t have shouted. Crazy what muggles can come up with._

_It’s amazing here in Egypt. Bill’s taken us around all the tombs and you wouldn’t believe the curses those old Egyptian wizards put on them. Mum wouldn’t let Ginny come in the last one. There were all these mutant skeletons in there, of Muggles who’d broken in and grown extra heads and stuff._

_I couldn’t believe it when dad won the Daily Prophet Draw. Seven hundred galleons! Most of it’s gone on this trip, but they’re going to buy me a new wand for next year._

Harry remembered only too well the occasion when Ron’s old wand had snapped. It had happened when the car the two of them had been flying to Hogwarts had crashed into a tree on the school grounds. Both he and Ron had gotten howlers for that particular incident.

_We’ll be back about a week before term starts and we’ll be going up to London to get my wand and our new books. Any chance of meeting you there?_

_Tell Moony and Padfoot I say hi!_

_See you in London,_

_Ron_

_P.S. Percy’s Head Boy. He got the letter last week._

Harry glanced back at the photograph. Percy, who was in his seventh and final year at Hogwarts, was looking particularly smug. He had pinned his Head Boy badge to the fez perched jauntily on top of his neat hair, his horn-rimmed glasses flashing in the Egyptian sun.

Harry now turned to his present and unwrapped it. Inside was what looked like a miniature glass spinning top. There was another note from Ron beneath it.

_Harry — this is a Pocket Sneakoscope. If there’s someone untrustworthy around, it’s supposed to light up and spin. Bill says it’s rubbish sold for wizard tourists and isn’t reliable, because it kept lighting up at dinner last night. But he didn’t realize Fred and George had put beetles in his soup._

_Bye — Ron_

Harry put the Pocket Sneakoscope on his bedside table, where it stood quite still, balanced on its point, reflecting the luminous hands of his clock. He looked at it happily for a few seconds, then picked up the parcel Hedwig had brought.

Inside this, too, there was a wrapped present, a card, and a letter, this time from Hermione.

_Dear Harry,_

_Ron wrote to me and told me about his phone call to you. I can just see him and Sirius yelling. Was it alright?_

_I’m on holiday in France at the moment and I didn’t know how I was going to send this to you — what if they’d opened it at customs? — but then Hedwig turned up! I think she wanted to make sure you got something for your birthday. I bought your present by owl-order; there was an advertisement in the Daily Prophet (I’ve been getting it delivered; it’s so good to keep up with what’s going on in the wizarding world). Did you see that picture of Ron and his family a week ago? I bet he’s learning loads. I’m really jealous — the ancient Egyptian wizards were fascinating._

_There’s some interesting local history of witchcraft here, too. I’ve rewritten my whole History of Magic essay to include some of the things I’ve found out, I hope it’s not too long — it’s two rolls of parchment more than Professor Binns asked for._

_Ron says he’s going to be in London in the last week of the holidays. Can you make it? I really hope you can. If not, I’ll see you on the Hogwarts Express on September first!_

_Love from Hermione_

_P.S. Ron says Percy’s Head Boy. I’ll bet Percy’s really pleased. Ron doesn’t seem too happy about it._

Harry laughed as he put Hermione’s letter aside and picked up her present. It was very heavy. Knowing Hermione, he was sure it would be a large book full of very difficult spells — but it wasn’t. His heart gave a huge bound as he ripped back the paper and saw a sleek black leather case, with silver words stamped across it, reading _Broomstick Servicing Kit_.

“Wow, Hermione!” Harry whispered, unzipping the case to look inside.

There was a large jar of Fleetwood’s High-Finish Handle Polish, a pair of gleaming silver TailTwig Clippers, a tiny brass compass to clip on your broom for long journeys, and a _Handbook of Do-It-Yourself Broomcare_.

Apart from his friends, the thing that Harry missed most about Hogwarts was Quidditch, the most popular sport in the magical world — highly dangerous, very exciting, and played on broomsticks. Harry happened to be a very good Quidditch player; he had been the youngest person in a century to be picked for one of the Hogwarts House teams. One of Harry’s most prized possessions was his Nimbus Two Thousand racing broom.

His dad was an excellent Quidditch player too. Though he was a chaser where as Harry was seeker. He remembered in his first year when he’d written back that he got on the team. Sirius was still crying when he went home for Christmas.

Harry put the leather case aside and picked up his last parcel. He recognized the untidy scrawl on the brown paper at once: this was from Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper. He tore off the top layer of paper and glimpsed something green and leathery, but before he could unwrap it properly, the parcel gave a strange quiver, and whatever was inside it snapped loudly — as though it had jaws.

Harry froze. He knew that Hagrid would never send him anything dangerous on purpose, but then, Hagrid didn’t have a normal person’s view of what was dangerous. Hagrid had been known to befriend giant spiders, buy vicious, three-headed dogs from men in pubs, and sneak illegal dragon eggs into his cabin.

Harry poked the parcel nervously. It snapped loudly again. Harry reached for the lamp on his bedside table, gripped it firmly in one hand, and raised it over his head, ready to strike. Then he seized the rest of the wrapping paper in his other hand and pulled.

And out fell — a book. Harry just had time to register its handsome green cover, emblazoned with the golden title The Monster Book of Monsters, before it flipped onto its edge and scuttled sideways along the bed like some weird crab.

“Uh-oh,” Harry muttered.

The book toppled off the bed with a loud clunk and shuffled rapidly across the room. Harry followed it stealthily. The book was hiding in the dark space under his desk. Praying that his parents were still fast asleep, Harry got down on his hands and knees and reached toward it.

“Ouch!”

The book snapped shut on his hand and then flapped past him, still scuttling on its covers. Harry scrambled around, threw himself forward, and managed to flatten it. Remus gave a loud, sleepy grunt in the room next door. Harry stilled, but he must have fallen back to sleep.

Hedwig and Errol watched interestedly as Harry clamped the struggling book tightly in his arms, hurried to his chest of drawers, and pulled out a belt, which he buckled tightly around it. The Monster Book shuddered angrily, but could no longer flap and snap, so Harry threw it down on the bed and reached for Hagrid’s card.

_Dear Harry,_

_Happy Birthday!_

_Think you might find this useful for next year. Won’t say no more here. Tell you when I see you._

_Heard your dad, Lupin, will be teaching this year as well. Looking forward to that._

_All the best,_

_Hagrid_

It struck Harry as ominous that Hagrid thought a biting book would come in useful, but he put Hagrid’s card up next to Ron’s and Hermione’s, grinning more broadly than ever. Now there was only the letter from Hogwarts left.

Noticing that it was rather thicker than usual, Harry slit open the envelope, pulled out the first page of parchment within, and read:

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_Please note that the new school year will begin on September the first. The Hogwarts Express will leave from King’s Cross station, platform nine and three-quarters, at eleven o’clock._

_Third years are permitted to visit the village of Hogsmeade on certain weekends. Please give the enclosed permission form to your parent or guardian to sign._

_A list of books for next year is enclosed._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Professor M. McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress_

Harry pulled out the Hogsmeade permission form and looked at it. He felt a thrum of excitement. Hogsemeade! He’d heard of it of course, but had never had the chance to visit yet. It was an entirely wizarding village and he’d heard stories of Honeydukes and Zonko’s.

Excited to show Remus and Sirius the Hogsmeade form when he woke up, Harry got back into bed and reached up to cross off another day on the chart he’d made for himself, counting down the days left until his return to Hogwarts. Then he took off his glasses and lay down, staring up at the ceiling until sleep tugged at him and he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer.

It had only been an hour or so since his birthday began, but it was shaping up to be a good one.


End file.
